


Sliding into You

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Cliches!, Drug induced Sex!, Let's Get Astrid Laid, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln has wanted to do this since he stepped through a portal with the other man. Since Peter saw him enter Olivia’s apartment with chicken soup in his hands and didn’t fly into a jealous rage, but say <em>You<em>, eagerly.</em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sliding into You

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note (or warning in this case), this story contains multiple point of views, sliding from one character to another quite rapidly, if you suffer motion sickness, pack your dramamine. 
> 
> Special thanks to kerithwyn for beta duties, all remaining errors are my own.

“Hey, watch it!”

Astrid dodges a student fleeing down the corridor, a blur of torn shorts and fake suntan. Peter presses a hand against her chest and shoves, pushing Astrid against the wall in time to avoid the barrage of water balloons that follows. “Adults walking here!” she calls after the offenders, who give chase to their quarry and streak past.

“Post exams?” Peter asks nonchalantly.

He leans against the wall beside her, shoulder to not-quite-shoulder, watching the chaos with his arms folded. Astrid never notices the differences in height until it’s transparent, a line of warmth down her side.

“No, that’s a different hell entirely. Did I tell you about the time student pranksters broke into Dr. Bishop’s lab? When he was _sleeping_?” Astrid widens her eyes earnestly. “I don’t know who was more shocked, the naked man, the kids, or Tim with his gun drawn.” She looks out of the corner of her eye, her smile bright as Peter huffs a laugh and pushes away from the wall. “This is the Annual Water-Balloon Fight, gaining notoriety every year. It makes me a little nostalgic. I remember MIT used to have the _best_ scavenger hunts. Harvard does water balloons.” She dodges three more water fights with Peter at her side before she jogs down the staircase that leads to the basement labs. “I’m betting you used to be knee-deep in hi jinks when you went to college.”

“I missed out on that particular milestone.”

“Pity. You’d be the type of prankster I would want on my team.”

**

In the distance, there’s a bloodcurdling scream fit for a horror film. Peter has images of buxom blondes streaking across Harvard with an axe murderer on their tail. But it’s a water fight, or what amounts to a wet t-shirt contest in cold climates; one-to-two odds, it had to be a guy who came up with that plan. Astrid pokes him in the ribcage with a surprisingly sharp elbow, as if privy to the thought.

“Of course, a water balloon fight in the dead of winter has its own merits, I suppose, and no one’s tried to break into Dr. Bishop’s lab since.”

Peter holds the door open for her, one toe jammed against the bottom of the panelling, and feels a smirk cross his face. “Someone didn’t duck,” he observes and takes a deep breath, eyes narrowed as he automatically searches the lab for Walter. There’s a blue flame and Bunsen burner bubbling merrily in one corner. The sweet scent of spice and cinnamon lies heavily in the air, Peter blinks, the aroma thick enough to taste on his tongue. Woozily, he thinks Walter should know better by now; an unattended flame was what sent him to Saint Claire’s in the first place.

Lincoln turns. His hair’s spiked up crazily, his suit soaked through. There are wet blotches on his mid-spine and abdomen, high on his collarbone. “Who has water fights in winter?” Lincoln asks plaintively, and holds his tie out for inspection.

**

“Approaching from the Spirals building is safer,” Astrid offers diffidently. “Less student traffic, and no pesky balconies to drop grenades from.” Lincoln shoots her a withering look and plucks the work-shirt from his torso. The name of the game is holding true: she can see the spare fingers of his ribcage, a ladder leading to his nipples, stiff under the cold.

“You didn’t think to mention this yesterday?”

“The rewards out-weigh the ire,” she says impishly, and brushes past him. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

The other man’s standing in the centre of the lab, head tilted. “Can you smell that?”

“Cookies?”

“I thought it was lemongrass,” Lincoln frowns. He breathes in deep, scenting the air. His fingers rest on the hem of his shirt, a slow pluck and twist of his wrist that catches Astrid’s eye, watching each button pop. “Is it warm in here?”

Helplessly, Astrid stares at his nipples and thinks not. Peter’s voice sounds wry. “How long have you been in the room for, Batman?”

“I thought it was Clark Kent, make up your mind.”

 _Definitely_ cookies. Astrid bites back a laugh because Peter’s noticed the state of Lincoln’s nipples as diligently as herself; he’s giving George Clooney’s bat suit a run for its money. Lee looks between them, the cadence of his voice turning slow as he ponders the question. “Only a minute or two. I found a lead on Jarrod Roberts, but when I went to pick up Olivia, neither her or Walter were here.”

There’s water beading on his neck from the ‘attack’, a droplet that slides across Lincoln’s pulse-point and into the hollow of his throat, teetering on the edge. Astrid watches avidly as he swipes at it. She feels suspended, balanced as precariously as the droplet. _Oh_ , she thinks, but the alarm is already distant, ephemeral, losing significance with each steady inhale. Peter takes two steps toward the Bunsen burner then stops. He stares down at a piece of torn off cardboard on the floor, the Jolly Roger emblazoned in black ink and capital letters. “Typical,” Astrid hears him say, like Lincoln, it doesn’t sound like himself. Peter’s voice vibrates down her spinal column, friction that alights her stomach with heat.

Astrid shrugs her coat off, letting it drop to the floor. She unwraps the scarf from her own throat and approaches Lincoln. The room is stuffy, as if the ventilation system has cut off, and there’s a hunger building inside that’s unrelated to cookies.

“Astrid,” Peter says, and he’s beside the Bunsen burner now, flicking it off urgently. His breath sounds laboured, as if the few dozen steps into the lab turned into a marathon instead. His hands curl around the lab-bench, a white-knuckled grip as he considers the closed windows. “Astrid, can you take Lincoln outside for me, please?”

 _Of course,_ should be the answer, and _Why?_ should be the next question, and _I don’t want to,_ is the honest truth because the lab is ridiculously warm. Instead of answering, she wraps the scarf around Lincoln’s neck, a soft constriction, and tugs him forward a step.

His face is wet, hair damp. Astrid only means to dry him off, to smooth down the riot of cowlicks and spikes from his too short hair, to follow the contour of his cheekbones to his lips, pink, soft as a girl’s. She only means to lean forward, except her mouth finds his, and somehow the kiss turns exploratory, thoughtful as a hello, an endless meeting of tongue, lips, of a slow grind against the length of his frame.

**

“Um?” Lincoln stutters.

He turns his head, the fresh scent of lemongrass, of something Thai-like making him dizzy, and he’s absolutely not hungry for food. Peter meets his gaze, eyes dark from across the room. He’s slouched against the tabletop in a pose of casual deceit. “You’re hard,” Lincoln whispers, and he thinks of all the observations he ought to be making, that shouldn’t be first on the list.

“Aphrodisiac.” Peter swallows, the column of his throat working silently. “Size and constitution has an effect, not unlike alcohol. You need to get Astrid out of here.” There’s something oddly protective in his voice, he sounds both ruined and strung out, and from across the room, his eyes bore into Lincoln as Astrid cups a hand to his groin and squeezes. Lincoln can’t think.  His hand closes around the delicate bones of her shoulder, he tugs Astrid close, closer, and fails to catch an honest breath. For all of his words, though, Peter makes no effort to help, or approach.

It hits Lincoln like a slow burn, a desire to please. He wants to take away the thread of loathing, as if Peter’s honestly afraid something will break inside this lab, shatter among the three of them, and leave nothing but shards and jagged wounds in its wake.

“Don’t worry,” Astrid murmurs. She turns her head under his chin; impossibly soft curls tickling his throat. “Peter, you don’t need to worry about me.”

She keeps a hold on Lincoln’s shirt-tails, the material knotting in her fist. Astrid’s left hand pets down his flank, soothing and rhythmic, until Lincoln wants to arch into her touch. The first tug is insistent, moving them deeper inside the lab, closer to Peter’s position, and the drugging scent of a changeling aroma washes over them both. It floods the room with urgency, with vibrant colours and underwater light.

Lincoln’s shirt is pushed off his shoulders. Astrid’s silk scarf brushes his nipples, teasing the flanks of his ribcage with each movement. Small hands find their way to his belt-buckle.  Knuckles push against his abdomen. Lincoln tilts forward to kiss her, his dick tenting the line of his trousers, all of his thoughts narrowed to _want, need, now_. Astrid’s wiry, she doesn’t sit by idle, she’s cheeky and evasive, turning in his hold like an eel, small shoulders pressed to his torso, and when Lincoln looks up, Peter’s right there.

Astrid licks into Peter’s mouth; one ankle hooks his foot. When they break apart her eyes are half lidded, she inhales like there’s a cigarette between her teeth. Her chest rises with the breath, her voice smoky. “Cool.”

He surges forward, one hand on her breast, the other gripping Peter by his nape, and jerks him close until all of their borders, their marked territories and solitary orbits, overlap - to clash together with more than verbal jousting - to clash with mouths, intent, with the occasional flare-up of teeth. Lincoln has wanted to do this since he stepped through a portal with the other man. Since Peter saw him enter Olivia’s apartment with chicken soup in his hands and didn’t fly into a jealous rage, but say _You,_ eagerly.

 _Me,_ Lincoln thinks and then, _yes damn it, **me,**_ and kisses Peter harder, rubs against Astrid, feels the air suck out of the room until his lungs are bursting. He could come like this; half dressed, randy, rubbing against each other like teenagers. He could come just like this.

**

“Thai,” Astrid insists sleepily. She smiles at Lincoln and soothes a palm down Peter’s spine. The air has cleared, the windows thrown wide open, the aroma fading away to something bitter, like scorched coffee on the back of her tongue. She turns her head, craning her neck to look out the window. Astrid can see a parade of sneakers, sandals, and leather boots walk past her eye-line, dainty ankles and hairy calves on display.

Her stomach rumbles impatiently.

“No, something sweeter.” Lincoln turns his head from where it’s pillowed on her stomach and regards Peter. “What do you feel like?”

They have every fast food restaurant in a ten-mile radius on speed-dial at the lab, but _where_ to eat comes down to a lively debate and a group vote; occasionally, it all boils down to rotten bribery.

“I’ll take whatever I can get,” Peter murmurs.

He nuzzles, tracing Astrid’s jaw line with the tip of his nose. Loose, hungry and content, Astrid returns her gaze to them both.  She watches his fingers flex on Lincoln’s thigh.

“Are we still talking about food?” Lincoln asks suspiciously.

“Thai,” Astrid says decisively, and then continues pointedly because it is not her turn to order. “I’m stuck.” When Lincoln goes to move his head from her belly, she tangles a hand in his hair and tugs him back down. Lincoln settles. Peter rolls to his feet, searching the lab for the nearest jacket and mobile phone.

On the other side of the lab, four white mice are still going at it, rutting frantically in their wired cage. Astrid thinks they might die of exhaustion before the drug clears their system.

**

There’s a low grade headache in the back of Lincoln’s skull, like he’s drunk too much coffee and forgotten to eat. He lies quietly, beside and partially on top of Astrid, and doesn’t feel inclined to move.

He listens to the distant noises of the student body outside; to Peter’s quiet voice as he places the order, and to the slow comfort of Astrid’s heartbeat. There are finger shaped bruises on Lincoln’s body; his dick is wet with Peter’s spit, and his entire body is humming like a livewire. He’s hungry, hungry like a man who caught a morsel before the main event, like a man _starving_ for it. He doesn’t know if the hum is shaking him apart of remoulding him, stretching his contours into something else.

“Does this happen often?” he asks, as an aside.

“There’s been a mishap or two,” Astrid confirms. Her eyes are watchful, strangely grave as her fingers card through his hair. “But this is the type of mishap I can live with easily. How about you, Lincoln?”

It takes him a moment before he realises the truth, and he hesitates further before he confirms. “I’m good.”

“You’re _very_ good.” The imp is back in her voice, the smile entirely in her eyes.

Peter returns, standing over the two of them with the mobile dangling from his hand, his body loose. “Fifteen minutes until the food arrives. You ready to stand up?” Lincoln raises an arm. Peter braces his feet and hauls Lincoln upright. Together, they pull Astrid off the floor and stumble to the nearest table, readjusting their clothing and collapsing into the seats messily. “So tell me about the lead you had?”

“Oh, right,” Lincoln straightens, brows drawn together as he mentally reviews the information, and wonders if this is how it goes - sex, food, and back to work – he can see the consideration in Astrid’s eyes, the way Peter watches him closely, and wonders if the cycle will repeat itself. Astrid’s knee bumps his under the table. Sex, food…and this will be the part where he concentrates on work. “Jarrod Roberts had an investment banker in Queens…”

When the food finally arrives, they pluck from each other’s containers, the competing chopsticks nimble as the three of them steal from one another. They go over the case notes with their heads bent close, and if they’re crowded, if the space between them remains nonexistent, none of them deign to comment.


End file.
